The Secret Diary of a Slytherpuff
by OnTheVergeOfExtinction
Summary: There once was a Pureblooded bigot/With a secret - and somehow, he hid it/See, he harboured a private affection/For a specimen of Hufflepuff perfection!...A nameless Slytherin and his unlikely crush. Oneshot. OC. Trio era, although time period irrelevant.
1. In which he feels a bit foolish

**An anonymous Slytherin's descent into madness. **

* * *

There was plenty about him worth knowing. There was little else, in his opinion, because he was undoubtedly a fascinating young man. But occasionally it paid to withhold information.

Most of the time, the secrets he kept simply added to his air of mystery. For example, the presence of a large collection of hidden dark objects in Cellar # 1232 at his mansion. You just weren't Slytherin enough without them. Or the number of girls he had slept with (the very foundation of a man's reputation). It was a question widely discussed and debated, though a true consensus had never been reached.

Then there were the more embarrassing ones. The first was this: his favourite subject was not, as he told the world, Potions - it was History of Magic. He thrived on every ghastly, mundane detail the students were fed in the miserable, (usually stifling) classroom.

The second was that his Patronus was a Puffskein. He didn't like to talk about it.

The third and final one was certainly the worst, and by far. One could just imagine the uproar that would ensue, if this particular fact became public knowledge.

He had what could only be described as an obsessive crush on the quintessential Hufflepuff sweetheart.

It wasn't until sixth year that he noticed her.

Then suddenly, she was everywhere. A single table away during meals, never a tiny enough speck at Quidditch games (the furthest she could go was the opposite end of the stadium, and this was not nearly far enough - curse his perfect vision…and his Omnioculars), in the corridors, sashaying around with her gaggle of girlfriends – it was _revolting_.

This was, of course, a rather silly complaint; in a school of no more than two hundred and fifty students, there was nothing remarkable about seeing someone multiple times in a day.

But what _was_ remarkable was that he was looking. She had gone from being another nobody (and a Hufflepuff at that) in his peripheral vision, to someone he _looked_ at - someone he couldn't _stop_ looking at, truth be told – nearly every moment of the day.

Like this one, for instance. There he was, an asset to the Pureblood community if there ever was one, innocently perched at his desk, (or rather, ensconced in his usual mysterious manner at his desk), and foolish Pomona Berkins could not be more noticeable. How was he to concentrate on what might well have been Professor Binns's finest lecture to date while she sat diagonally to his left, with her perky brown ponytail and obscenely yellow tie? If only she would stop passing little slips of paper back and forth with such enthusiasm. As if her tiny cerebrum could truly be the birthplace of such vital information that the entire class had to be aware of her need to convey it.

Well, the entire class except him, it seemed. Not that he could be bothered. Why, the very thought was ridiculous. He had his most bone-chilling glare prepared for any fool who tried to pass him notes. His father _was_ in with the Dark Lord, you know.

It was just that…no one did try it. It was a rather good glare too, with his eyebrows involved and everything. It had taken the better part of an hour to come up with, and he hadn't really had an opportunity to use it. Was he such a social outcast that his finest glare wasn't worth a knut? He had hoped it would go down well with Pomona…

The lass in question chose that moment to not-so-stealthily toss a note onto her friend's desk, and her ponytail gave an especially alluring swish. The friend, on reading the note, let out a snort that would have put Gregory Goyle to shame. He casually wondered what the joke was.

Hmm...must've been rather funny. But then, no Hufflepuff could come up with anything _too_ hilarious. He, on the other hand, had quite a few racy limericks worth mentioning. Went down quite well at his mother's garden parties…

Not that he frequented these. His blood was basically orange-tinted firewhiskey, and his bedpost threatened collapse, what with all the notches that had been dug into it.

Well listen to that. Wasn't that a hilarious joke? Surely it was good enough for these morons. Then why wasn't he in on theirs (inferior though it might be)? Why was _she_ still ignoring him? Was he looking average, or – he shuddered at the very idea – _ugly_? Was his hair unappealingly glued to his forehead? Did he have enormous sweat stains around his armpits?

(Well, that couldn't be it, he thought, as he stole a glance at a love-struck Milicent Bulstrode, sending her into a tizzy. He was having a sexy day, after all.)

He wanted to shout at Pomona, seizing her shoulders and turning her towards him, "_Can't you appreciate these fine, aristocratic features?_ _This delightful sense of humour?_ _HUH!_ _It's not like Cedric-Dunderhead-Diggory had any wit to speak of!_"

But this would inevitably put him in her bad books, since that fool of a pretty boy was dead and all...really, these Hufflepuffs were just too sensitive.

Actually, the thought of seizing her by the shoulders was getting him rather excited. Perhaps there would be no shouting at all - perhaps she would entwine her fingers in his hair and pull him closer…

Oh God. Oh, good God. This would not do at all.

He silently thanked Madam Malkin for making such loose robes, and followed it up with a gory visual of dead puppies. It did the trick.

Phew. His heartbeat slowly returned to normal.

He casually flicked his dark locks, hoping to appear indifferent to his surroundings. Milicent Bulstrode gave a loud sigh (of surprising femininity, given her otherwise manly appearance), but Pomona Berkins remained disturbingly unaffected.

He was just contemplating asking her for an extra quill when the class ended, snapping him out of his daze. What was he doing, fantasising about her? She was juvenile! She was a Mudblood and a Hufflepuff! She wasn't even that _pretty_, for God's sake! She was…

…looking right at him.

Huh.

Well she was incredibly attractive, in actuality. Who was he fooling?

He realised he was staring up at her from his seat, frozen in a half-leaning position towards his bag. He combed his considerable mind for something witty to say.

"_May I... help you?"_ Too generic. He liked the pause though. It added certain oomph to an otherwise bland sentence.

"_Is there... a problem?"_ He wanted to impress her, not piss her off!

"_Whatchoo... lookin' at?"_ What was _that_, his inner Filch?

But before he could come up with something that would suffice, she had opened her perfect, pink little mouth and spoken.

"D'you have an extra _A History of Magic_? It's just that I seem to have lost my copy, and someone might've picked it up by mistake…"

He called upon the creator of Life, the Universe, and Everything to supply him with words.

The creator responded.

"Uh, yes, sure!" Wait, what? "...I mean, no I don't have it…but maybe you'd like my notes?" He pulled them out of his bag and held them out to her.

She smiled. Ah blessed, blessed, beautiful, holy day! "Oh, thanks! Wow, that's quite a lot, isn't it? You must _love_ the subject." She laughed, and he cocked his head to one side, marvelling at the sight. "I know _I_ couldn't survive without Professor Binns' daily dose of wisdom."

Warmth swept over him. She was _perfect_.

"Oh, abso_lute_ly," he gushed, excited at having found the only other human being in the world to share his opinion, not to mention thrilled at having re-discovered the gift of verbosity, "isn't he brilliant? You know, I checked out this book on Grover the Grumpy the other day, and I really feel…"

He launched into a lengthy explanation of the book's merits, particularly when compared to the autobiography of Meryl the Morose, whose name, he thought, "really lacked the same alliterative effect."

After a while, he paused for breath, hardly noticing the class had emptied around them, and not-at-all noticing that the grin on Pomona's face had become somewhat frozen.

She took the moment to cut in. "Right, well…er, wow! That's really…anyway…I'd best be off then! Or I'll be late for my, um…free period."

She took off at a hurried pace, hair swishing in a manner that set his heart aflutter, and exited the classroom; leaving him sitting alone at his desk, the sound of children's laughter coming in through the windows.

He stared down at the table, his brow slightly furrowed, pondering this embarrassment. So was she being sarcastic about loving the subject, then?

Huh. He supposed she was.

Oh, so she thought him an idiot? Well, wasn't that just dandy?

He'd show her he was worthy…come on, he was incredibly intelligent! He could hex like nobody's business! His nose was perfection itself! He…

He was losing his mind. He looked down at his chest, upon which rested his green tie. He looked at the silver serpent crest on his pocket. His eyes narrowed. He felt the blood that was as old as his family name running through his veins. So the family was a little inbred, and Aunt Helena had been born with the extra elbow or whatever it was, but the blood, the blood was pure! And that moronic little Hufflepuff thought that she could…with her stupid _ponytail_…

It was disgusting! Everyone knew yellow was a wimpy colour! How ever would they raise the children…the very thought…

He sat there till darkness fell (luckily there were no more History of Magic classes set for the day) (less luckily, he missed every other class, including Transfiguration, and duly suffered the consequences), pondering over his own loss of Slytherin-pride. He thought it might be a good time to say something dramatic, such as "Forgive me Salazar, for I have failed thee!" but then rejected the thought. He didn't want Pomona to walk in and witness it, much too embarrassing. No, no, he'd just sit there thinking about…

Oh, for the love of all things vicious and snakelike. He was at it again! Had he no control over himself?

He scowled into the night.

"Stupid Hufflepuff."

* * *

**The idea for the title came from a line from the story: "How ever would they raise the children?". Would they be evil masterminds with an infectious giggle? Fond of puppies but with an evil plan to rule the world? Which house would they go to? Confusion follows suit, and a catchy title is born.**

**Thanks for reading! Please please do review, it's a tiny bit of effort for you and a lot of useful input for me!  
**


	2. In which he screws himself, figuratively

**Another non-adventure in the life of our Slytherin hero.**

* * *

His forehead was creased with concentration. Ignoring the loud cheers all around him, he carefully adjusted the focus of his Omnioculars. After a moment's work, he brought them to his eyes and gazed through.

Perfect.

Framed within an infinity symbol, Pomona Berkins smiled prettily and waved her yellow flag with enthusiasm. She was forever doing things with enthusiasm. It was one of her most lovable – and consequently, most despicable – qualities.

It was the first game of the Quidditch season; a real humdinger, Slytherin vs. Gryffindor. This, come to think of it, made it rather strange that Pomona was holding a _yellow_ flag. But perhaps that was just another symptom of the inferior Hufflepuff intellect.

He himself did not play Quidditch. There was a perfectly legitimate reason for this fact (one he frequently gave himself, along with the rest of the world): that he hated the sport with every fibre of his being. Of course, proclaiming a loathing for the most popular wizarding sport did not say much for his masculinity. But he found that it added to his dark, mysterious image, causing women everywhere to pine for him and thus earning him the respect of his male housemates.

But this was carefully concocted nonsense. He did not hate the game. The constant backdrop of noise that accompanied it did not give him a headache. The rush of adrenalin and testosterone on the Quidditch pitch did not make him want to roll his eyes, or do something more sophisticated instead (such as have sex with a French person, or light a cigarette, or pointedly ignore someone, or light a cigarette while having sex with a French person he was pointedly ignoring.)

The reality was that he had tried out for the team in his second year, performed terribly, been laughed off the pitch by the burly captain and his minions, and had never been back since.

Not until a certain maiden had captured his attention.

But this could in no way be considered an improvement. Acting cowardly was one thing, but being brave enough to beat his fears for the sake of gawking at an (admittedly charming) Hufflepuff girl through a piece of mediocre magical equipment was a shameful demotion in the eyes of anyone who wasn't a Gryffindor.

After a few minutes of peaceful, creepy stalking, his view was impaired by an enormous pointed hat. Closer inspection revealed that the hat was perched upon the head of Albus Dumbledore (the head of the Head, he thought, giggling, before snapping out of it), who was walking towards his seat one level below Pomona's. He waited patiently for the headmaster to continue on his way, but instead received a nasty shock when Dumbledore sat down right in that very spot, obscuring Pomona completely.

He lowered the Omnioculars from his eyes, bristling. That old git and his enormous hat.

What was he supposed to do for the rest of the match – _watch _it?

He frowned sullenly. It was no wonder the man kept a beard – it was said that the neck revealed a person's true age, in which case, the neck of Albus Dumbledore must have decomposed to ash fifty years ago.

Heh. Good one.

With a sigh, he got up, and walked towards a different spot. He had only just sat down and begun to gaze at his would-be lady love when she jumped up from her seat, grinning from one dainty ear to the other, and hugged some lucky bastard beside her. Simultaneously, the entire stadium erupted in a roar of impressively high decibel. In the air, the Gryffindor players had embraced to form one giant crimson mass, slowly descending to the ground. The imbeciles had won, and the match was over - as was his dream of having an enjoyable afternoon.

Both Potter and Dumbledore were clearly conspiring against him – couldn't the lad just _miss_ the snitch from time to time?

Frowning, he placed the Omnioculars in the pocket of his cloak, and began to exit the stadium with the rest of the crowds.

On reaching the ground, he heard a voice call his name. He turned around to see Ivan Urquhart, captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, walking towards him. Not two feet away (his heart began to thump painfully), was Pomona Berkins – and in an unusual turn of events, she was walking alone.

"Not used to seeing you around here, old pal!" boomed Urquhart, falling into step beside him. "Had a change of heart?"

In his fourth year at Hogwarts, he had walked into the dormitory one morning to find Urquhart in the bathroom, hurriedly washing his damp, slightly smelly sheets and underwear. Urquhart had weepily confessed to having bladder problems, made him swear never to tell anyone, and had treated him like a king from that day on.

Which really put liking a Hufflepuff into perspective, he supposed.

"I...yeah," he now replied, his voice suddenly and suspiciously deep. He had suddenly spotted Pomona from the corner of his eye, only separated from him by a lovelorn couple holding hands. "Can't get enough of that Quidditch!"

"Really?" asked Urquhart. "Are you any good, then?"

He let out a laugh as sudden and sharp as a blowhorn.

Then he considered for a moment. The laughter ceased abruptly.

"Er…yes, I suppose so."

Lies.

"Great!" said Urquhart, punching his shoulder excitedly as these overtly manly types are wont to do. "Tell you what…Malfoy's been a bit strange lately…head isn't in the game. You should play Seeker for our next match!"

Damnation. Served him right for trying to impress someone who was kind to small animals and children.

"Er…well, I don't know about that…"

He glanced surreptitiously at Pomona, and saw to his shock that she was listening intently. Her eyes were on the ground, true, but her stance was one of such careful attention that she might as well have had her ears cocked.

"Come on!" said Urquhart. "It's only Hufflepuff we're playing-" here he thought he detected a faint eyebrow raise in the vicinity "-we'll beat them easy!"

"Well, you know, I wouldn't say that…they're an impressive team! Good sports, too, the lot of them. No chance of fouls."

It was only Urquhart's deficient urethral sphincter that kept him from passing a snide remark about brain damage.

"Brilliant, so you'll play!" he exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. Overt manliness seemed to imply a lot of shoulder casualties. "Listen I'd better head to the locker rooms - forgot my, uh, medicine. See you later, then."

He, of course, knew this medicine to in fact be a brand of invisible diapers (_Deirdre's Disappearing Diapers: "You may have a leaky willy, but you need never feel silly!"_), and so simply nodded his goodbye, not trusting himself to speak.

Really...did everyone he knew have some humiliating secret or the other? Behind the intimidating looks and blatant prejudice, Slytherin house was an embarrassment.

He had barely taken a step when he heard another voice – this one, all too familiar.

"So I guess we'll be competing, then?"

His heart stopped beating, his diaphragm alarmingly lost the ability to contract and relax, and he thought he might have suffered a problem similar to Urquhart's, albeit on a much smaller scale.

He looked towards her, now standing right beside him, forgetting entirely about maintaining a deep voice.

"You play seeker?" he whispered, sounding afraid. This was ridiculous. He had never been the rugged, shoulder-punching type (though he _was_ the proud owner of three whole chest hairs), but the girl was a head shorter than him!

"Yeah, I do!" she said, smiling in her usual chirpy manner. Please. Didn't she know emo was in?

"Oh." Then, in a childish moment that typified the kind of behaviour cause by the male genome, he said, "Be ready, I'm going to take you down."

Oh, for God's sake. He might as well have pulled her pigtails in the playground.

"Well, in that case, we'd get a penalty and probably score…so please, go ahead." she said, rolling her eyes.

Had she just outwitted him? How…adorable.

"I just meant - "

"I'm sure," said Pomona, somewhat briskly. "Hey listen…don't I know you from somewhere?" Her brow furrowed, as though she were in deep thought.

He was caught between falling on one knee asking Her Royal Cuteness to marry him, and telling her to be careful with the thinking, or she might lay an egg. And also, if he was honest with himself, weeping noisily because she couldn't recall him.

Slytherins have dramatic tendencies.

She scrutinised him. "Didn't you lend me a beetle in Potions that one time?"

"No, I don't think so."

"A quill in charms?"

"No."

"Parchment in Muggle Studies?"

"Certainly not!"

She nodded slowly, dropping her gaze to floor. Then she let out a gasp, and looked up at him suddenly with narrowed eyes. "Are _you_ the guy who pinched my bum in the corridor yesterday?"

"Er…no." Most unfortunately.

Her face lit up in sudden realisation. "Wait a second…aren't you in my History of Magic class? I asked you for a book! Grover, isn't it?"

"Er, no," he said yet again, flinching. "It's –"

The girl walking in front of them chose this moment to let out a deafening cackle of a laugh, her boyfriend grinning, obviously proud of himself. The two then began to engage in appendage-entangling behaviour that would have made Rita Skeeter blush.

It certainly had this effect on Pomona. Her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, matching her scarlet ears. It looked surprisingly good on her.

And though he wouldn't have thought it possible (he'd been there and done that – in fact, he had done more, and done it better), he found himself tuning pink as well. Somehow, the fact that it was Pomona who was beside him made him feel rather hot under the collar.

By now they had reached the school doors. They walked into the Entrance Hall together, unsure of how to depart politely (with him all the while fighting the urge to push her up against some wall somewhere), before exchanging slight, embarrassed smiles and heading their separate ways.

That night was one of little sleep and much grinning into the pillows.

And this was how our Slytherin hero came to find himself fifty feet up in the air, scared out of his mind and gripping a broom for dear life.

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**So I found this on my computer recently, having written it a few months after Chapter One. Suddenly I find myself once again picturing the trajectory of my foolish Slytherpuffian. He just can't resist that model of chirpy goodness, can he?  
**

**Please review! YOU WILL GET COOKIES AND WATERMELONS. ON SEPARATE OCCASIONS. Think about cookies. Now think about watermelons. Don't, under any circumstances, picture watermelon cookies. **

**Isn't a little reviewing nothing compared to the idea of watermelon cookies?**

**Thanks for reading!  
**


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